Winter in the High Sierra--Mines--Pueblo Nuevo and Its Amiable
Padre--A Ball in My Honour--_Sancta Simplicitas_--A Fatiguing
Journey to the Pueblo of Lajas and the Southern Tepehuanes--Don't
Travel After Nightfall!--Five Days Spent in Persuading People
to Pose Before the Camera--The Regime of Old Missionary
Times--Strangers Carefully Excluded--Everybody Contemplating
Marriage is Arrested--Shocking Punishments for Making Love--Bad
Effects of the Severity of the Laws.
The sierra for several days' journey southward is about 9,000 feet
high, and is not inhabited, except in certain seasons by people who
bring their cattle here to graze. I doubt whether anyone ever lived
here permanently. The now extinct tribes, to whose territory this
region belonged, dwelt, no doubt, in the valleys below. The high
plateau consists of small hills, and travelling at first is easy,
but it becomes more and more rough as one approaches the big, broad
Barranca de Ventanas.
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 Senor 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 mediaeval
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 Senor 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.