again." This assertion was made to me by a station agent of the Veracruz al Pacifico railroad.
"There are no survivors of Valle Nacional—no real ones," a government engineer who has charge of the improvement of certain harbors told me. "Now and then one gets out of the valley and gets beyond El Hule. He staggers and begs his way along the weary road toward Cordoba, but he never gets back where he came from. Those people come out of the valley walking corpses, they travel on a little way and then they fall."
This man's work has carried him much into Valle Niacional and he knows more of the country, probably, than does any Mexican not directly interested in the slave trade.
"They die; they all die. The bosses never let them go until they're dying."
Thus declared one of the police officers of the town of Valle Nacional, which is situated in the center of the valley and is supported by it.
And everywhere over and over again I was told the same thing. Even Manuel Lagunas, presidente (mayor) of Valle Nacional, protector of the planters and a slave owner himself, said it. Miguel Vidal, secretary of the municipality, said it. The bosses themselves said it. The Indian dwellers of the mountain sides said it. The slaves said it. And when I had seen, as well as heard, I was convinced that it was the truth.
The slaves of Valle Nacional are not Indians, as are the slaves of Yucatan. They are Mexicans. Some are skilled artizans. Others are artists. The majority of them are common laborers. As a whole, except for their rags, their bruises, their squalor and their despair, they are a very fair representation of the Mexican people. They are not criminals. Not more than ten per cent were
