Steam and gunpowder have often proved the most eloquent apostles of
civilization, but the impressiveness of their arguments was, perhaps,
never more strikingly illustrated than at the little railway station of
Gallegos, in Northern Mexico. When the first passenger train crossed the
viaduct, and the Wizards of the North had covered the festive tables with
the dainties of all zones, the governor of Durango was not the most
distinguished visitor; for among the spectators on the platform the
natives were surprised to recognise the Cabo Ventura, the senior chief of
a hill-tribe, which had never formally recognised the sovereignty of the
Mexican Republic. The Cabo, indeed, considered himself the lawful ruler
of the entire _Comarca_, and preserved a document in which the Virey
Gonzales, _en nombre del Rey_—in the name of the King—appointed him
“Protector of all the loyal tribes of Castro and Sierra Mocha.” His
diploma had an archæological value, and several amateurs had made him a
liberal offer, but the old chieftain would as soon have sold his scalp.
His soul lived in the past. All the evils of the age he ascribed to the
demerits of the traitors who had raised the banner of revolt against the
lawful king; and as for the countrymen of Mr. Gould, the intrusive
_Yangueses_, his vocabulary hardly approached the measure of his contempt
when he called them _herexes y combusteros_—heretics and humbugs.
“But it cannot be denied,” Yakoob Khan wrote to his father, “that it has
pleased Allah to endow those sinners with a good deal of brains;” and the
voice of nature gradually forced the Cabo to a similar conclusion, till
he resolved to come and see for himself.
When the screech of the iron Behemoth at last resounded at the lower end
of the valley, and the train swept visibly around the curve of the
river-gap, the natives set up a yell that waked up the mountain echoes;
men and boys waved their hats and jumped to and fro, in a state of the
wildest excitement. Only the old Cabo stood stock-still. His gaze was
riveted upon the phenomenon that came thundering up the valley; his keen
eye enabled him to estimate the rate of speed, the trend of the up-grade,
the breadth, the length, the height of the car. When the train
approached the station, the crowd surged back in affright, but the Cabo
stood his ground, and as soon as the cars stopped he stepped down upon
the track. He examined the wheels, tapped the axles, and tried to move
the lever; and when the engine backed up for water, he closely watched
the process of locomotion, and walked to the end of the last car to
ascertain the length of the train. He then returned to the platform and
sat down, covering his face with both hands.
Two hours later the Governor of Durango found him in still the same
position.
“Hallo, Cabo,” he called out, “how do you like this? What do you think
now of America Nueva?” (“New America,” a collective term for the
republics of the American continent).
The chieftain looked up. “_Sabe Dios_—the gods know—Senor Commandante,
but _I_ know this much: With Old America it’s all up.”
“Is it? Well, look here: would you now like to sell that old diploma? I
still offer you the same price.”
The Cabo put his hand in his bosom, drew forth a leather-shrouded old
parchment, and handed it to his interlocutor. “Vengale, Usted—it’s
worthless and you are welcome to keep it.” Nevertheless, he connived
when the Governor slipped a gold piece into the pouch and put it upon his
knees, minus the document.
But just before the train started, the Governor heard his name called,
and stepped out upon the platform of the palace-car, when he saw the old
chieftain coming up the track.
“I owe you a debt, senor,” said he, “_y le pagarè en consejo_, I want to
pay it off in good advice: Beware of those strangers.”
“What strangers?”
“The caballeros who invented this machine.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?” laughed the Governor as the train
started.
The old Cabo waved his hand in a military salute. “_Estamos ajustade_,
Senor Commandante, this squares our account.”
—_Atlantic Monthly_, Jan., 1884.