group of open sheds, thatched with palm leaves, while above us
volcanic rock masses tower more than two thousand feet. Across the
river Balsas, apparently rising from the water’s edge, are the
tremendous heights of the Cordillera, lifting themselves twelve to
thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea.
The Mina el Puerto is an ancient mine, now nearly exhausted; for it
has been worked almost two hundred years, all through a single doorway
cut into the rock, barred by a great wooden door, fastened by a
ponderous lock with a ponderous iron key. Each morning, for many
decades, the owner has taken the key from his belt, unlocked the big
door and sent fifteen to twenty naked Indians down the “chicken
ladders” four hundred feet into the hot mines below. There is no
ventilation, there are no pumps, there is no other way to go in or
out. Two or three hours is the longest time a man can work at the
bottom of this hole; when the Indian can stand it no longer he climbs
up bringing on his back the ore which he has been able to dislodge, or
a bag of water, if any shall have leaked in. By three or four o’clock
in the afternoon, those who went down have all come out again. The ore
they have dug is thrown upon a pile beneath the palm-thatched roof;
the owner of the mines then locks the door. When the ore pile has been
reduced to powder by the hammering of many dusky hands, it is
concentrated in the wooden troughs, washed with water from the river
Balsas, three miles away, brought up in bullskin sacks upon the backs
of mules; and when a sufficient number of two-hundred-pound bags of
concentrated ore have been accumulated, forty or fifty mules are tied
together neck to tail, loaded with the bags and driven almost one
hundred miles up to the plateau. These ores have always been
particularly rich, the gold and silver in them having been sufficient
to pay the cost of transportation to and charges of the smelter,
leaving the copper for net profit.
The Mexican owners have lived well from the fortune of their mines. In
fact, to them copper ore in the ground has been equivalent of cash in
the bank. When they have wanted money they have dug into their ore
bed. They generally smelted it themselves in crude clay furnaces,
using charcoal burned near at hand. What of gold and silver there
might be was also run into the copper bars and the bars were currency.
A pile of bars meant rollicking jaunts and roystering junkets. The
family and friends, the servants and retainers were gathered together,
muskets and swords, horns and mandolins were assembled, horses and
pack animals were loaded and bestridden, and a tour of the surrounding
countryside was made. Bullfights, cockfights, balls and fandangoes
were gloriously enjoyed, duels were fought, hearts were stormed and
the copper ingots were blown in even to the last ounce. Then the
company would return, the fast-locked door would again be opened and a
new supply of copper extracted from the mine. Like princes lived these
_Señores de las Minas_, so long as the earth yielded up her hidden
treasure.
[Illustration: ARRANGING A BATTLE]
[Illustration: THE VICTOR]
At this particular mine, this sort of thing has been going on for a
hundred years. Generations have come and gone and come again, and the
ore has not yet given out. But the thrifty ancestors so managed it as
to pay only the smallest taxes to the government. Why should they pay
good money into the itching palm of the distant despots, who might for
the moment hold supreme power in the far-off capital! The first owner
had “denounced,” (i. e. taken up), only half an acre. In the middle of
this he cut the doorway to the mine. His descendants have always paid
taxes on that half acre! The government never asked for more. Even
Diaz was content. So the workings went on, and spread and ramified
into the many acres surrounding the single so well-guarded entrance.
The original half-acre had long years ago been mined out. And no one
ever entered the mine or knew of its depth or latitude except the
owner, who took the big key from his belt each workday morning and
opened the ponderous wooden door. The Indians dug and sweated and
smothered in the hot depths, even as their forbears had done. The
Castrejon family held fast to the big key and enjoyed their credit for
unbounded riches. La Mina el Puerto was a busy place, and its
hospitality was equal to its wealth.
Thus it might have continued to this day, but for an accident which
happened two or three years ago. One stormy night two travelers sought
shelter beneath the Castrejon thatch. In crossing the _llanos_ they
lost their way and their horse cast his shoe. They discerned the light
on the mountain side and came to it. The courteous lord of the mine
gave them true Spanish welcome. “All that he had was theirs!” They
slept in his biggest hammocks and ate his fattest _poios_ (chickens).
The strangers were _gringos_ (Americans) and “missionaries” and one
spoke excellent Spanish and the other smiled. El Señor told them how
many years he had worked the mine, he and his ancestors, and he
boasted, just a little, of its wealth. In the morning, rested, fed and
smiling, they bade their gracious host a parting _adios_ as they
followed his _superintendente_, who rode with them to the main road
from which they had strayed. The mine as usual worked on. The incident
was forgotten. A few months later, one sultry evening, the _gringos_
returned and with them a mining inspector of the Mexican government
and a company of _rurales_. The _Fomento_ (Department of the Interior)
had granted to them all of the mineral rights surrounding and outside
of the half acre which contained the big door. _Los Señores_ de
Castrejon had never had legal title to any mineral, but what lay under
that half acre. If ore had been taken from outside of that half acre,
it had been stolen from the government and dire are the penalties for
theft in this land of the iron hand. And what ore had been taken from
the outside of that half acre now belonged to the two strangers. They
might sue in the courts and recover the full value of it and all legal
costs. The two Americans were very courteous as they explained these
matters to _El Señor_. The mining inspector was there to examine the
mine and the _rurales_ held in their hands repeating rifles of the
latest pattern. _El Señor_ was a discreet man. He accepted the
courteous offer of the smiling Americans that they would not
prosecute, provided he made them a deed for all claim he had to the
half acre, the big door and whatever else he might possess. He was
pleased to sign the deed. He then mounted his horse--they gave him
back his horse--and rode away a beggar. Next morning the Americans put
the big key in the door, unlocked it and sent the Indians down to
their daily toil. The mining inspector received liberal recompense for
his trouble and rode contentedly back to the _Tierra Fria_. The
_rurales_ were induced to remain yet a little while, as a sort of
protection against unforeseen mishap.
The new owners remained long enough to place a new native
_superintendente_ in charge at increased salary, and then accompanied
the _rurales_ upon their return. But _los Americanos_ were themselves
gentlemen who had had to leave the States in rather hasty flight, and
soon fell into feud among themselves. One, I learn, is now residing in
a Mexican penitentiary for robbing a brother missionary, and the
other, having sold his own interest as well as that of his partner to
uninitiated purchasers in Kansas, has also disappeared. At the time of
our visit the mines are in the hands of a receiver of the courts, and
the Kansas people are endeavoring to ascertain just “where they are
at.” Do you wonder, when I tell you that I find throughout all this
ancient mining region a certain suspicion of visiting Americans, even
on the part of Mexican owners whose titles are beyond a flaw?
_Saturday._
Early this morning Tio and I mounted into our saddles and with an
Indian-Mexican guide crossed the _llanos_ to see two quartz veins
showing copper. The veins are “undenounced,” open to whosoever may
care to take them up. We did the unusual thing of going out in the
middle of the day, and before we returned the fierce sun’s heat burned
almost like flames of fire. I have never known anything but fire so to
scorch. Even in this great heat we passed a hawk poised upon a cactus
top watching for his prey and seemingly wholly unmindful of the terror
of the sun.
[Illustration: VAQUEROS CROSSING THE RIO DE LAS BALSAS]
After our _siesta_, we loaded the two pack beasts, saddled our riding
animals and, about four o’clock in the afternoon, set out for the
river Balsas, two miles to the south, and to the little town of
Churmuco on its banks. From the mountain side we took a last look over
the wide expanse of the _llanos_, extending twenty or thirty miles
toward the west, as level as a floor, the blue line of the Cordilleras
marking the horizon far beyond.
We passed through several prehistoric, Indian towns. Their streets
were laid out with regularity, generally at right angles, the
foundations of the ancient houses still plainly showing. In many
places, the base walls were intact and constructed of rounded bowlders
laid carefully, in a row, upon one another in substantial tiers.
The rich bottom land along the river, wholly uncultivated, much
impressed me. The soil, a black and chocolate loam, is capable of
bearing any crop, and is twenty to thirty feet in thickness. There
was no cultivation anywhere. These lands belong to some mighty
_hacienda_ (a hacienda contains often from one hundred thousand to two
million acres) owned by some absentee _haciendado_. It is said to be
worth about ten cents (Mexican) per acre!
The river Balsas looks as broad as Elk River in West Virginia, where
it enters the Kanawha (four or five hundred feet in width). It is now
the dry season, but, nevertheless, the river is swift and deep, a tide
of clear blue water too swift and too deep to ford or swim. In the
rainy season it must be a boisterous mighty stream, for its fall is
rapid. In the dry season it is fed by the melting snow fields of
Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl far to the east. The stream is said to
afford good fishing, and in it veritable crocodiles (Cayman) abound.
Approaching the river, we found ourselves at a primitive ferry where
two wild-looking _vaqueros_ were about to cross. Availing ourselves of
this opportunity to voyage upon the Balsas--Mexico’s greatest
river--we tied our horses in the shade of a friendly mimosa and
climbed aboard the craft used as a ferryboat--a sharp pointed scow
which is entered at the stern. The two Indian boatmen pulled each a
ponderous blade, but despite their most strenuous efforts, the
powerful current carried us down quite half a mile before we landed
upon the farther shore--a wide bar of sand and pebbles. Our fellow
passengers eyed us in suspicious silence, each holding fast his
_broncho_ lest it should jump out, their wild dark glances betokening
little friendliness. Reaching the shore each silently swung into his
saddle and galloped off toward the not far distant Cordillera. These
silent, untamed men traverse this desolate country everywhere, keeping
constant track of the thousands of cattle and horses which roam their
wastes; and the Indians of Guerrero bear the name of being the most
turbulent and treacherous of all Mexico.
Recrossing, we traveled for an hour through rich and uncultivated
bottom lands along the river’s course, until we came to the primitive
town of Churumuco, a hamlet occupied by Indians only, an Indian priest
gazing out of the dilapidated church as we rode by. Here we found a
_fonda_ (inn) with ample _corral_. A half-caste Spanish-Indian woman,
“_Señora Doña_ Faustina,” cooked us a supper of potatoes, rice,
_tortillas_, and _chilis_ (peppers) stewed in cheese, substantials
which were washed down with clear hot coffee. Here, in the intense
heat, the burning peppers were vivifying and we ate them greedily.
We slept on native mats set on frames three feet above the adoby
floor in the open _patio_. Pigs, cats, chickens, dogs and children
scrambled beneath.
We were just rolling up in our blankets, when _Doña_ Faustina
excitedly addressed my companions, Tio and El Padre, and I gathered
from her speech that _chinchas_, as long as your hand, had a habit of
crawling along the rafters and dropping upon the unsuspecting sleeper,
while, unless your shoes were hung above the floor, _tiernanes_
(scorpions) were likely to camp in them until dislodged. I hung my
slippers above the _tiernanes_ stinging reach and lay awake
apprehending the _chinchas’_ descent, but the fatigue and heat of the
day, the soporific influences of _chilis_ and cheese, soon wrapped me
in a slumber from which only the braying of our white pack mule at
last aroused me, as Izus cinched upon him the burden for another day.
The night was warm and close, the first dull, heavy air I have known
in Mexico. We were now actually in the _Tierra Caliente_--where, the
saying is, “the inhabitants of Churmuco need never go to hell since
they already live there.”
It was not yet three o’clock in the morning and still dark. _Ros_ and
_poios_ and coffee were already prepared for us. “_Adios, Doña
Faustina!_” “_Adios, Señorita!_” “_Adios, Señores!_” “_Adios, adios!_”
and we trotted out of the _corral_ and, turning northward, moved up
a deeply-cut _baranca_ over a more generally traveled trail than that
by which we had come. The coldness of night no longer chilled us, the
air was almost warm, while no sign of day made mark upon the heavens
above us; the black spaces of the night were yet ablaze with great
white stars. The constellations to the northward I well knew, but to
the south there were many wholly new and, supremest of them all, just
clinging along the gigantic mountain summits, shone the splendid
constellation of the Southern Cross, my first glimpse of it. We reined
in our horses, turned and watched the big lustrous stars descend and
disappear behind the impenetrable curtain of the Cordillera’s towering
chain.
[Illustration: THE LANDING, RIO DE LAS BALSAS]
The Balsas River was now behind us. The _baranca_ we ascended widened
out. We were upon the well-beaten track of travel from Guerrero, and
even Acapulco, to the north. Ere the sun came blazing up, we were many
miles on our way. And well for us it was so, for the day’s heat has
been the most terrible I have yet endured. The animals did not sweat,
nor did we, the air was too dry for that, but my blood boiled, my
bones baked, and my skin parched from the fierce hotness of the sun.
Even the cowboys we here and there encountered sat silent in their
saddles beneath the mimosa’s and mesquit’s thickest shade.
The land was desolate, with no habitations save here and there a
solitary _rancho_ or wayside resting place, where passing travelers
might find rough lodgment and perhaps food for themselves and beasts.
The only sound was the droning whir of millions of cicadas.
It was nearly midday when we reached the grateful shelter of La Mina
Noria, there to tarry and revive until we should fare on in the cooler
evening hours.
XIV
Wayside Incidents in the Land of Heat
MINA NORIA TO PATZCUARO,
_December 8th-10th_.
Later in the day we were ascending the San Pedro valley toward the
Hacienda Cuyaco. It was just growing dusk when we heard the music of
violins. We came upon an Indian habitation of two buildings connected
by a wide, thatched veranda. Here, upon the veranda, several
dark-faced youths were playing a slow-timed Spanish fandango, and
twenty or more young girls, arranged in rows of fours, were taking
steps to the music, swaying their bodies and shaking small gourds,
filled with pebbles, for castanets. The enthusiasm of the musicians,
the soberness and gravity and grace of the dancers, as they stepped
and postured, made a charming picture. They were gowned in white, with
flowers in their black hair, and they danced with easy dignity. We
halted our horses and watched the grave company, no one paying the
slightest heed to our presence, otherwise than to acknowledge our
“_Buenas Dias_” and parting “_Adios_.”
By the time the night came down upon us, we were far upon the road.
Just at the moment of the falling darkness, we met a band of Indians
with their _burros_. They had halted. Each Indian had doffed his
_sombrero_. One Indian kneeling, was crossing himself. They were
facing a small rough cross rising from a pile of stones. Each threw
one more stone upon the pile, crossed himself, bent his knee, and
moved on. It was a spot where death has met some traveler. The cross
sanctifies the place. The stones permanently mark it and, year by
year, the pile grows bigger from the constant contribution of the one
stone added by each passing traveler.
The night found us at a primitive Indian shelter; a thatched roof
above an earthern clay stove. In the _corral_ several droves of pack
mules had already been unburdened for the night. Beneath the thatch
the drivers were wrapped in their _zerapes_ and slept profoundly. We
unrolled our cots, set them out beneath the stars and fell asleep,
even as we were. By two o’clock we were awakened before the others
were astir. We made cups of coffee from the hot water on the stove
where the smouldering fire lingered through the night, and were in our
saddles before the Southern Cross had sunk from view. We were to
make a great day’s ride, pressing on even to Ario, if that were
possible, twenty-four leagues away (sixty miles) and five thousand
feet above us in the air. Should we be able to do it?
[Illustration: THE MIGHTY CORDILLERAS]
By eight o’clock we reached the Rancho Cuyaco and stopped to obtain
delicious cups of chocolate and all the oranges and bananas we could
eat. The cup of chocolate prepared by the Mexican is a delightful
drink. Each cup is made separately. The chocolate bean is pounded in a
mortar and just enough of the vanilla bean, which here grows
abundantly, is compounded with it to give it an exquisite flavor. The
chocolate is thick and creamy, and if you would have your cup
replenished, another ten minutes must elapse before you get it. No
beverage is so refreshing to the traveler as a cup of this delicious
chocolate.
By nine o’clock we crossed again the river La Playa, passed the Rancho
of that name and began the great ascent toward the _Tierra Fria_. I
started in slippers and linen trousers and thin pajama coat. Half way
up the five thousand feet, I put on my woolen jersey; by noon we were
traversing the forests of pine and oak near Rancho Nuevo and shivering
from cold. There, heavy shoes and warm corduroys were donned. We
forgot that five hours before we were burning and baking in the
torrid heats a mile below.
At Rancho Nuevo we found ourselves preceded by an aristocratic company
of ladies and gentlemen from the distant region of La Union, near the
Pacific,--three _señores_ and two _señoras_, with a number of Indian
attendants. They rode fine horses, and their saddles and trappings
were of the most sumptuous Mexican make. The head of the company was
an elderly man with white hair and white beard, an _haciendado_ of
importance. He wore narrow-pointed, tan-leather shoes; his legs were
encased in high leathern leggings reaching above the knees; his
trousers were tight-fitting, laced with silver cords and marked with
silver buttons along the sides; a soft white linen shirt was fastened
loosely at the throat with a black silk scarf, and a short black
velvet vest and a velvet jacket with silver buttons and much silver
braid, completed the costume. His high felt _sombrero_, gray in color,
bore upon the right side a big silver monogram. About his waist a
leathern belt supported pistols, and great spurs clanked at either
heel. The other two _caballeros_ were clad and armed in like fashion.
The ladies wore long riding habits which they held up with both hands
when they walked about. There were some fine rings on the fingers of
the elder woman, the younger one wearing large hoop-rings in her
ears, while a diamond flashed upon her left hand. Their saddles were
like chairs, upon which they sat sidewise, resting both feet upon a
wooden rail. I did not make out whether they themselves guided their
animals with the reins, or whether these were led by the long halter
lines with which the bridles were fitted out. When we arrived, the
kitchen was astir preparing dinner for these guests. Meantime, the
ladies stretched themselves out upon the wooden benches for their noon
_siesta_ and the men stood about in groups watching us with suspicious
mien. The truth is, the Mexicans of the better class look upon
Americans with great doubt. So many Americans have left their native
country, for their country’s good; so many American scoundrels have
preyed upon the hospitality of Mexican hosts, that the Mexican of
to-day has learned to require letters of introduction before he shows
the stranger American the courtesy, which it is racially instinctive
for him to bestow.
The company first arrived, ate, repacked, mounted and fared on some
time ahead of us, although we hastened our own departure, cutting
short the midday interval of rest, in order that we might reach Ario
ere night should fall.
During the last few days I have ridden my mule without the incumbrance
of the frightful bit and bridle, with which he was at start equipped,
guiding him with halter alone, and I have found him all the better
pace maker. He is black in color, above the average in size, and of
that superior strain for which Spain and Mexico have long been famous,
the high-bred riding mule. He has proved worthy of his trust, for
during this entire journey he has never once stumbled nor made one
false step, however rough the way or precipitous the declivity along
which we have passed. To-day, near the journey’s end, he is the
superior beast of the whole company, although at the start I was
doubtful of my mount. This afternoon I have lent him to Tio, whose
heavy bulk has galled the back of his mare. I have exchanged my
lighter weight to this unhappy animal, whose sores will never be
allowed to heal, and which will be ridden by successive travelers
until wearied and harried to its death.
It was barely day-end when the white walls of Ario looked down upon us
from the slopes above, and we were welcomed by our host of the Hotel
Morelos with the warmth of an old friend. He was particularly cordial
toward Tio, and I now witnessed, in all its perfection, the embrace of
old acquaintance, which is the particular mark of regard among the
Mexicans. Our host and Tio grasped their right hands and shook them
cordially, then with hands still clasped each drew toward the other,
looked over the other’s left shoulder and clapped him several
percussive slaps upon the back. This process was repeated at intervals
several times until finally the two fell apart with many bows of
profound esteem. I sat one morning on the Plaza Grande, before the
great cathedral in Mexico City, and watched two casual acquaintance
thus greet each other; first, they shook hands, then they embraced,
then they shook hands again, and every few minutes repeated the
handshake and embrace during the lengthy conversation, each thereby
seeming to assure the other that he was really the friend he made
himself out to be.
We had indeed arrived at Ario. We had made a great ride since early
dawn, had been more than ten hours in the saddle, traveling some sixty
miles and ascending five thousand and four hundred feet! El Padre and
myself first entered the narrow streets, a little later came our
_mozo_, Izus, driving before him our pack animals, and half an hour
behind him came Tio and my mule. He declared the animal to be almost
dead and we feared it might be so, but the next morning, when we made
ready to start out again, we found his mule-ship, as also the horses,
in perfect fettle, as though no long sweltering journey and monstrous
climb had been the toil of the yesterday.
The air of the highlands was fresh and keen. Its tonic was so
invigorating that we forgot fatigue, and made the journey to Santa
Clara and Patzcuaro as easily as when we first set out.