heads down. Some were ragged, some well dressed, and several had small bundles on their shoulders.
"On their way to the valley!" I whispered. My companion nodded, and the next moment the procession disappeared through a narrow gateway on the opposite side of the street, the entrance to a most conveniently situated "bull pen" for the accommodation over night of the exiles.
After supper I mingled with the crowds in the leading hotels of the town, and was aggressive enough in my role of investor to secure letters of introduction from a wealthy Spaniard to several slave holders of the valley.
"You'd better call on the jefe politico at Tuztepec as soon as you get there," advised the Spaniard. "He's a friend of mine. Just show him my signature and he'll pass you along, all right."
When I arrived at Tuztepec I took the advice of the Senor and to my good fortune, for the jefe politico, Rodolpho Pardo, not only passed me along, but gave me a personal letter to each of his subordinates along the road, the presidentes of Chiltepec, Jacatepec and Valle Nacional, instructing them to neglect their official business, if necessary, but to attend to my wants. Thus it was during my first days in the Valley of Death I was the guest of the presidente, and on the nights which I spent in the town a special police escort was appointed to see that I came to no harm.
In Cordoba, a negro building contractor, an intelligent fellow, who had sojourned in Mexico for fifteen years, said to me:
"The days of slavery ain't over yet. No, sir, they ain't over. I've been here a long time and I've got a little property. I know I'm pretty safe, but sometimes I get scared myself—yes, sir, I get scared, you bet!"
