The Overland Monthly/Volume 5/Road-Making in the Tropics

ROAD-MAKING IN THE TROPICS.

NO. 1.

ONE of the strangest gaps in mod ern geographical science is the little knowledge which, after nearly four centuries of explorations and discovery, we possess of the comparatively narrow Strip of land that separates the waters of the Pacific from those of the Caribbean. More than three hundred and fifty years ago, Vasco Balboa de Nufiez led his Spaniards across the mountains of Veragua to the discovery of the mighty ocean whose waters cover nearly half the globe, and, a decade later, the conqueror of Mexico himself penetrated to the heart of Honduras, from the north, and Hernandez planted the standard of Spain by the waters of the Lake of Nicaragua; but the explorations thus commenced by the greatest of the conquistadores have since found few to continue them, and most of the territory of Central America still remains untrodden by the foot of the White Man. The settled Indian tribes of the Plains, and the Pacific Coast, were indeed reduced to submission to the Spanish Monarchy by the sword of Alvarado and the persuasions of Las Casas, and stately cities sprang up by the Lakes of Managua and Nicaragua, and in the Plains of Guatemala, nearly a century before the Mayflower crossed the Atlantic with the Pilgrim Fathers of New England; but neither the wealthy communities that dwelt in those cities, nor the bold adventurers that flocked to the New World in quest of wealth and renown, have made any important addition to our stock of knowledge respecting the wilder parts of the country, which are still almost as little known to us as they were to the followers of Cortez.

The importance of finding or making a direct communication between the Caribbean and the South Sea—as the Pacific continued to be styled down to the days of Cook and Bligh—did not escape the notice of the Spanish Court; and Herrara, the historiographer of Charles the Fifth, pointed out four routes, by which it might be attained, as far back as 1527; but, although those routes have ever since been before the eyes of the world, the question of the practicability of any one of them has never yet been solved, and even the actual existence of a water-communication between the two oceans is still an open question. Considering the limited extent of the territory between Tehuantepec and Panama, the proximity to the ocean of every part of it, and the importance of its position in the highway of commerce for over three hundred years, there seems, at first sight, something inexplicable in the fact of its surface being so little known. Generation after generation of civilized men has grown up, and lived, and passed away, in the flourishing cities of Nicaragua and Guatemala; commerce and learning have lent their aid to their development; the golden treasure of the mines has poured wealth upon them; the war- vessels and merchant - galleons of Spain have sailed up and down the San Juan, and over the waters of the great lake, for century after century, and still the foot of the explorer has scarcely penetrated into the narrow strip of country that separates that lake from the Atlantic. For ages has the wealth of Peru been laboriously carried across the few leagues that divide the Gu'f of Panama from the Caribbean, and still

the possibility of spanning those few leagues by a canal is among the unsolved problems of modern science. Every motive that could whet the cupidity, or excite the curiosity of explorers, has tempted the traveler's research—tales of Indian cities buried in the depths of the forests; of natural canals, along which the native dongos passed from sea to sea; the known mineral wealth of the country, and the desire of the most powerful monarchs of Europe for its exploration —but all have failed to make us acquainted with the interior of Central America. The Spanish conguistadores, the bold buccaneers who made their haunts among the creeks and lagoons of the Mosquito Coast, from the days of Drake and Hawkins down to those of Lafitte, and the restless Yankees themselves, who, for the last twenty-one years, have been seeking a shorter passage between California and the Atlantic than the long voyage around the Horn —all have been, so far, baffled by this mystery-covered land; and now, three hundred and sixty years after De Nufiez bore the standard of Castile into the tide of the Pacific, and claimed its shores and islands as the heritage of his sovereign, we are anxiously waiting the result of the Darien Survey, to know whether the narrow isthmus offers any insurmountable obstacle to "the meeting of the waters" of the two oceans. Since then, the world has been circumnavigated, for the first time in history; Australia, New Zealand, and the countless groups of the Pacific have been discovered; the Nile has revealed its sources to the courage of a Speke; the fong-hidden Niger has been traced to its mouth by Park and Lander; Ross has explored the shores of the Antarctic Continent, and McClure solved the problem of the North-west Passage; but still the few hundred square miles of the Isthmus of Darien remain a ¢erra incognita to modern science.

A brief experience in the exploration of the Central American forests, however, soon removes any astonishment that one may feel at the little progress that has been hitherto made in ascertaining the conformation of the country. The difficulties thrown in the way of the explorer, by*the arid deserts of Africa or Australia, dwindle to insignificance in comparison with those presented by the inexhaustible fertility of Nature in the gorgeous lands of tropical America. Buffon has remarked that while animal life displays its greatest variety and vigor in the Old World, it is in the New that Nature puts forth her greatest wealth of vegetation; and no one who has ever had occasion to force his way through the forests of Central America will feel disposed to question the accuracy of the last part of the assertion, at least. The rank luxuriance of vegetable life, unless constantly checked, obliterates the works of human industry as surely, and almost as rapidly, as the tide sweeps away impressions on the sands of the shore; and under the enervating influence of the climate, and without the stimulus to exertion which a more barren soil, and the fear of want, supply in less-favored lands, man feels little disposed to maintain the contest with Nature. Locating a road, or making a survey in the jungles of Central America, is a very different thing from running the boundary lines of a Government Survey @a a Western prairie. The thickness of the underwood and matted creepers, through which it is impossible for even an Indian to force his way without the aid of his machete; the wonderful vigor of vegetable growth, which, in the rainy season, seems to put forth a new forest almost as fast as the old is cut away; the slowness with which the most energetic efforts advance under the influence of a tropical climate; the total separation from men involved by a journey of even a few miles into the primeval forest,

where no sign of human habitation or footsteps is to be found; and where a league on foot is a laborious day's journey; the difficulty of conveying provisions; the chances of becoming inextricably involved in marshes, or stricken down by some of the pestilential fevers common in the country; and, finally, the dangers of attack from the jaguars, pumas, or alligators that swarm throughout the wilderness, or of being bitten by some of the venomous reptiles that infest the underwood—all these make even a preliminary survey, or exploration, a very serious undertaking in the uninhabited districts of Central America, and amply account for the little knowledge that has hitherto been obtained of its surface. Nor are the risk and toil involved in making such a survey the only or chief obstacles to the proper exploration of the country; but the amount of information derived from it when made is incomparably less than that furnished by similar works in more temperate regions. The density of the forests renders the cutting of a track through them a mere groping in the dark for the best route; and one may make a dozen such in the width of a league or two, without striking the most practical grade for any proposed work. Neither do previous explorations give much aid to subsequent surveys, as a rainy season or two suffices to cover all traces of them with a fresh growth of jungle, which soon becomes undistinguishable from the rest of the forest. Thus,the military roads, made through Nicaragua by the contending parties during Walker's occupation of the country, have now completely disappeared; and even cuttings made in 1865 had been almost obliterated two years afterward, when work was resumed upon them. In such a country, it is natural to expect that any engineering works, even the smallest, can only be carried out at a large expenditure of capital and labor, and those that are actually un dertaken are proportionately few: so a sketch of the proceedings of one, taken from the diary of one of the engineers engaged on it, may not be devoid of interest.

The cessation of the murderous civil wars which had so long desolated Central America, and the establishment of something like a settled Government in its various States, gave birth, a few years ago, to several schemes for establishing new communications between the Pacific and the Caribbean. Honduras, Costa Rica, and Nicaragua—the three States which possessed ports on both seas— were all anxious to divert a part of the traffic that was then flowing across the Panama Railroad, to their own territory, and each of them organized canal or railroad projects to attain that object. Nicaragua, thanks to the facilities offered by the San Juan for traveling by water through her territory, had always enjoyed a share in the California travel; and as the silting up of that river threatened to deprive her of the advantage she had hitherto enjoyed over her neighbors, the Nicaraguan Government was peculiarly anxious for the construction of a railroad between the Lake of Nicaragua and the Atlantic shore. The distance to be crossed scarcely exceeds a hundred miles; but the nature of the country was utterly unknown, and, indeed, with the exception of a few independent tribes of Indians along the banks of the rivers, it is entirely uninhabited by man. The whole civilized population of the republic, both White and Indian, is collected on the Pacific slope of the country, Greytown being the only settlement of any size on the Caribbean Coast, which, in the days of Spanish rule, was the favorite haunt of, the English, Dutch, and French bucca-neers; and, subsequently to the establishment of independence, was claimed by England in the name of the mock monarch of Mosquito. An exploration

of this wilderness was therefore necessary, as a first step, before any project of a railroad through it could command the attention of capitalists; and attempts

were made by English and American

surveyors to cut a passage through it, in 1863 and 1865, but in both cases without success, the surveying parties being driven back by want of provisions before they could complete their work. The importance of ascertaining the nature of the country was, however, too great to allow of the scheme being readily let drop, and, in 1867, Captain Pim, a retired officer of the English Navy, having obtained a valuable railroad concession from Nicaragua, and money support from Mr. Webb and other New York capitalists, determined to make another attempt to accomplish the survey. The banks of the Rio Rama, which falls into the sea. about thirty-five miles north of Greytown, had been already surveyed for some distance, and it was believed that the distance between the upper part of the course and the shores of the lake could not exceed fifty miles, a survey of which, if no unforeseen obstacles existed, might be accomplished by a strong party in a few months. Mr. Collinson, an English engineer of high professional standing, who had been already employed on the survey of the Rama in 1863, undertook to cut a track from San Miguelito, on the shores of the lake, to the Rama; and the work was commenced at the former village, toward the end of February, 1867.

San Miguelito itself is a mere collection of Indian huts; but its proximity to San Carlos, the head of the San Juan, rendered it suitable for a provision station. The party was what would have been considered a strong one in another climate—consisting of about a dozen native laborers, besides the two engineers, Collinson and Deering, the latter of whom took charge of the actual work of surveying, while the former attend ed to the supplying of provisions and men, and exercised a general supervision. Nevertheless, it was subsequently found necessary to materially increase its numbers, in order to finish the work before the commencement of the rainy season, which there commences about the beginning of June, and which renders it almost impossible to continue any work in the woods during its continuance. About one-half of the natives employed were Caribs, from the Honduras Coast, who make excellent woodmen, and, in strength and activity, are fully equal to the best White lumbermen. Theyare the remnant of the formidable nation which once occupied most of the smaller West Indian Islands, and who, after long wars, were removed to this coast by the Spanish Government. They are entirely distinct from the Mosquitoes, who are a mixture of the Negroes brought there by the buccaneers and the native tribes. The rest of the party were the ordinary Indian or half-breed laborers, of Nicaragua—who, though inferior to the Caribs in physical strength, proved industrious and easily managed workmeh—with a black cook from Jamaica. The latter, after a short experience of the nature of his duties, was never weary of bemoaning his hard luck in having to serve a parcel of Indians; and the Caribs, it must be confessed, showed themselves decidedly fastidious in their culinary tastes: the most refined Parisian epicure could hardly criticise his cook's performances more severely than those half-naked children of the forest did theirs; and, in fact, they looked upon the style of eating of the White Men with a strong feeling of disgust. Moreover, their criticisms were not confined to words alone, but were occasionally enforced by the weight of their fists and sticks; and the leaders had more than once to rescue the unlucky chef from the merciless pommelings bestowed on him, in requital for his failure to please

Carib palates. With the exception of this curious development of the irrepressible conflict between Negro and Indian tastes, however, there was no cause to complain of disputes among the party; and, by dint of coaxing and promises, Watson, the Negro, was easily induced to forget his bruises, and continue to render his services until the end of the survey.

The first part of the proposed road lay through the savannas which fringe the edge of the lake, and occasionally extend several miles inland; and as the obstacles to be overcome on them consisted mainly of the long grass, which rises to a height of eight or ten feet, with a few clumps of trees scattered through it, the work advanced with considerable rapidity. The sun-baked nature of the soil, the burning heat, and, above all, the want of water, however, made the work very severe and painful, especially to the White engineers. For two or three days a supply was brought from the lake, but as the distance from San Miguelito became greater, the party was obliged to depend on the few stagnant pools they met with, and which were the chosen haunt of the tapirs, or dantas. This liquid, in which the brutes had been wallowing a few hours previously, had to be used for washing, cooking, and drinking, and its ill effects soon began to tell upon the health of one of the engineers. Garrapatas, or ticks, hornets, ants, jiggers, and all the other insect pests of the tropics, swarmed in those savannas, and waged unceasing war upon the invaders of their domain. Whites and Indians alike suffered from their attacks, and so painful were the stings of some of the insects that it was not uncommon to see the stoutest Indians howling and writhing in agony from their effects. The large, black ants were especially troublesome, and even clothing was an inadequate defense against their bites. It was, therefore, with feelings

of satisfaction that the party, on the eighth day after leaving San Miguelito, entered the forest which stretches thence down to the shores of the Caribbean, and in which they had at least less to suffer from their insect foes. The heat, too, was less insupportable under the shade of the lofty trees than it had been in the savannas; and with the help of mosquito-bars, which form an indispensable adjunct to "camping-out" life in those regions, it was generally possible to enjoy sleep of nights. Mosquito-bars, be it added, were a portion of civilization fully appreciated by the epicurean Caribs, who, indeed, displayed in general a regard for their own creature comforts fully as strong as that of the most egoistic of the superior race; and it was necessary to furnish each of them with an adequate supply of those luxuries, much to the disgust of Collinson, who regarded such aspirations on their part as a piece of insufferable impudence.

When the party had fairly entered the forest, the nature of their work and its difficulties underwent a material change. The progress of the cutting party through the tangled mass of vegetation—vines, bejucos, prickly-pear, and other parasitical plants that cover the soil so thickly that it is generally impossible to advance a yard without the aid of the machete—— became extremely slow, especially, as in order to preserve the line of the route exactly, it was constantly necessary to fell heavy forest-trees that barred the way. For some days after entering the forest the trees were chiefly various kinds of palms and other endogens; but as they advanced up the mountain chain that forms the water-shed between the lake and the Caribbean, numerous timber trees began to appear. Half a mile was often as much as could be accomplished in a day by the assiduous labor of all hands; and the slowness with which the work advanced naturally caused considerable anxiety about the possibility of

finishing it before the rains, if the same character of vegetation should continue all through. However, in spite of these obstacles, the shade afforded by the trees —which were so thick as completely to exclude the sun's rays—and the greater abundance of water, made the work in the forest less disagreeable than it had been in the savannas. It was some days before the party met with any running streams or springs; but the dejuco-vine, when freshly cut, yields a moderate supply of cool liquid from its stem, which enabled the party to satisfy their thirst tolerably well. Snakes, which had been a cause of some apprehension, owing to the peculiarly deadly character of some of the species found in those woods, gave but little trouble—incomparably less than would have been the case in an Asiatic or Australian jungle; and the deadly coral-snake, whose bite is certain death within an hour, only crossed their path two or three times during the three months they were engaged in the forest.

Indeed, in the depth of the forest there was a remarkable absence of animal life in any of its forms higher than insects; and for the first three weeks of the expedition, scarcely any quadrupeds or birds were seen, except a few wild turkeys. The natives accounted for this scarcity of game by a terrific tornado which had swept over the country two years before, destroying the animals along with the forests that sheltered them; but from whatever cause arising, the scarcity certainly existed, and added considerably to the difficulty of subsisting the party curing the survey.

The plain bordering the lake does not

extend far inland, and about twelve miles from San Migueliio the route began to cross various spurs of the dividing range, and at the same time the forest underwent a considerable modification in its character. India-rubber- trees, cedars, lance-vood, and mahoganies now formed a considerable part of it, and the hardness of most of the woods offered immense labor to the cutters. The Nicaraguan machete is in shape something like a very long hunting-knife, and, in the hands of those accustomed to its use, is a most effective instrument for cutting down brush or saplings, though inferior to an axe for felling large timber. Two of the Caribs, however, were provided with American axes for the latter purpose, and used them with the skill given by long practice in the mahogany cuttings, so that the advance was fully as rapid as could be made by any White laborers. Nevertheless, a month after leaving San Miguelito, it was found that the rate of progress altogether had been less than three-quarters of a mile daily, even including the progress made in crossing the savannas. The steepness of the hills, and the hardness of the trees in the woods through which they were now passing, would have made a considerable diminution in this rate had it not been for the arrival of several fresh laborers, both Caribs and Nicaraguans, who reached the camp just as they commenced to ascend the dividing range. With this reinforcement, a rate of over half a mile a day was steadily maintained up to the end of March, when the party had advanced about twenty-two miles from their starting-point at San Miguelito.

ABOUT seventy miles south-west A of the city of Puebla, there lies a pretty little town, rejoicing in the rather difficult name (to Anglo-Saxons) of San Juan Iscaquixtla. Pleasantly situated at the foot of a broken range of hills rising off the table -land, its climate is delicious—never too warm, nor too cold; and, as the traveler approaches it from Puebla, he passes through extensive fields of maize, varied here and there by an occasional patch of frijoles, or beans. The hills themselves present rather a dreary and monotonous aspect, as they are chiefly covered by the stunted palm— very useful to the Indians for the manufacture of fefates, or mats, but not very beautiful, taken from a picturesque point of view; here and there the tall and solitary organo raises its slender head above a few thorny shrubs, which afford pasture to various herds of goats and sheep. One would imagine that these animals would have been allowed to remain in undisturbed possession of those bleak ranges; but they had for companions far more dangerous creatures than either wild-cats or wolves — Mexican bandits. For these, the very loneliness and broken nature of the range possess a charm: they know every path, every gully, every nook, in these convenient hiding- places; and woe betide the unfortunate who, having fallen in with a band of these freebooters, thinks to escape by taking across country. He suddenly finds himself on the brink of a deep darranca, or gully, whose perpendicular sides render the descent impossible, except at certain places, well known to the /adrones, but not to the unlucky wretch, who would give half his fortune to find one. These hflls were, toward

the close of last year, the scene of a fearful tragedy, which I will endeavor to relate in as few words as possible, simply remarking that this is no imaginary tale, as several of the actors were personally known to the writer.

About eight miles from San Juan lies the rancho of "Barragan," belonging, at the time of which I write, to a very hard-working and greatly respected old Indian, named Cirilo Gil. This old man, who could neither read nor write, had been mayordomo, or manager, of a small goat-run, and had, while in that position, managed to scrape together a few thousand dollars—thanks to untiring industry and perseverance. With this money he rented a small cattle-run, was very fortunate in all his ventures, and soon found himself in possession of such capital that he was enabled to purchase Barragan. A new life was now opened to the self-made proprietor: he experienced all the pleasure of a child with a new toy in being from daylight to sunset in Ais fields, in the midst of his Jeones, as the Indian laborers are termed; and, under his vigilant superintendence, and animated by his untiring zeal and example, these Jeones soon had the satisfaction of hearing that praise so dear to the true husbandman; for Barragan was spoken of as one of the finest and most prosperous vanchos in the district. Fortune, though proverbially so fickle, stuck firm to old Gil, and he soon proved himself to be no unworthy object of her favors. The wretched little sacaée hut was replaced by one of those plain, but solid adobe houses familiar to all who have traveled in Mexico—a large, square, one-story building, in the centre of which is the Patio, or court-yard, into which

open all the rooms, the only entrance to the whole being the zaguan, a pair of huge, massive, wooden doors; on either side being the chief rooms—the sa/a and the office. According to the custom of the country, the farm-hands ought, also, to have moved their dwellings; but it was not done, and they continued to live on at the old place, rancho viejo—a great mistake, as the sequel will show.

Years rolled on, and Gil found himself the father of no less than twenty children. Like a true ranchero, he had a wholesome horror of the corrupt state of large towns, and, consequently, his sons received but little education—no more, in fact, than was to be had in San Juan; but, on the other hand, they grew to be daring and splendid riders — took a pride in owning the finest horses, and the best fighting-cocks, in the district—and would sit for hours over the gaming-table, watching and speculating on the chances of monte—that fascinating, but dangerous game, so dear to the Mexicans. Perfectly satisfied with their father's able management of the estate, none of them cared to interfere, and so it was by a rare chance they ever assembled at home: some would be off to a Fair with cattle; others would be in attendance at some /est2a—no matter how far away—and supremely happy in the bull-ring, leaving only two or three with their father. The sisters had all married, and a cook and her aid were the only female inmates of Barragan. But the fame of their wealth— enormously exaggerated, of course — soon began to be spoken of; and many were the friendly warnings given to Don Cirilo, not to continue his solitary life on the rancho; he was strongly advised to live even in San Juan, or anywhere where danger from the P/agiarios (kidnapers) was less imminent; but he turned a deaf ear to all these wholesome counsels—contenting himself with investing in a few rifles, and having a man

constantly stationed on the azofea, or roof, as lookout.

The year 1869 was fast drawing to its close; and what was the condition of the State of Puebla? In the Sierra, a strong force of Indians had pronounced against the Government, and, headed by one Juan Francisco Lucas, a brave, but unprincipled chief, kept the division of General Alatorre fully employed. On the other side, toward Matamoras Izucar, numerous bands of banditti kept the rural guards on the gué vive, but these were but few in number—quite inadequate to face the situation—and traveling had become a matter of great danger, owing to the roads not being sufficiently guarded. Among those who kept the road from Puebla to San Juan, and all the adjacent country, in terror, were two bold Captains of bands—one of them named Manuel Villa, the other Camilo Bravo. These, at the head of some thirty men each, levied black-mail on all passers; and if any thing fell in their way, such as a well-to-do ranchero, they carried him off to the hills and there detained him till a ransom was paid. The absence of the troops allowed them to act almost with impunity, and soon they cast their longing eyes on Gil and the rancho of Barragan. Gil was supposed at this time to be worth from $250,000 to $300,000, and would therefore be a great prize; but how to get at him? He never left his rancho; at night a guard was mounted, and the zaguan was thick, well locked, and barred. Villa and Bravo put their heads together, resolving to unite their bands to make success doubly sure; but these two worthies could not agree as to the best means of effecting their purpose: each wanted to be leader, and as neither would give way, Villa at last retired in disgust, leaving Bravo to his own resources. But the latter was not to be so easily balked of a good prey: he soon found a man named Paulino Noriega, who fell readily

into his views, allured by so tempting a booty, and forthwith active preparations were made to insure a successful issue. To Bravo was intrusted the management of every thing; and this wily bandit, to throw a better blind over his intentions, removed a long distance with ali his band; lulling the inhabitants of San Juan and the adjacent ranchos into a false sense of security; fondly imagining that Bravo, convinced that the terror of his name had caused the roads in that neighborhood to be deserted, had gone in search of more lucrative thoroughfares. In the meanwhile, our plotters were not idle: they recruited men, and their spies penetrated into the very house at Barragan, so that the manners and customs of the Gil family were perfectly well known to them. All was ready, and they only waited now for an opportunity. It soon presented itself.

Early in the month of December, the rancho was left almost alone. The young men, as well as most of the feones, had gone off to attend a festa at some distance, leaving Don Cirilo, his eldest son Pepe (José), and the youngest at home. The old man was rather unwell. He was now over eighty, and age, added to sickness, had somewhat soured his once even temper. Pepe wished to retain a guard of picked men in the house, understanding the danger they would be exposed to in being left thus solitary, but his father would not hear of such a thing. "Who," said he, peevishly, "is likely to come and harm us? Have I ever done ill to any one? Do I ever refuse hospitality to strangers, or aid to my peones? Who, then, would attack me?" All was done according to the old man's wish, and away went a large and merry troop, bent on enjoyment; little thinking they were never again to behold—these, their father; those, their master, alive or dead.

That very night was the one chosen by Bravo and Noriega for their expedi tion; and silently they wended their way over the hills and through the darrancas, generally so peaceful, now alive with so many scoundrels of the worst kind. Between eighty and ninety men assembled at last, at about ten P. M., close to the house, and a careful survey was made. Every thing was quiet: the few inmates were at rest, and the only sounds that broke the stillness of the night were the gentle lowing of the cattle in an adjacent corra/, the occasional distant howl of the coyoée, the almost unearthly screech of the owl —answered by the barking of the dogs. Cautiously was the advance made, and at last every thing was ready: a chain was formed all around the house, and a small picket thrown out to prevent any chance of assistance from the side where lay the cluster of houses of the farm-hands. The only danger now lay in being seen by the sentry on the roof as they scaled the wall; but here again the demon of Evil had befriended them. The usual guardian was ill, and Gil's youngest son, a boy some fifteen years old, (whose name I forget, but whom we will call Juan) had been put on the lookout. Poor Juan, unaccustomed to such lonely work, had soon fallen asleep; and, with his rifle in his lap, was peacefully dreaming of the great things that 4e would do, later on, in the bull-ring, when he was suddenly awakened by a pair of rough hands grasping him by the throat. Overcome by terror, he was unable to utter a cry; and ina few seconds he was gagged, blindfolded, and tied so as to render any chance of assistance from him hopeless; they then took his rifle, and, in a few moments, several dark forms were on the roof. The light ladder by which they had mounted served them for the descent to the Jatio; and thus a picked body, headed by Noriega, were safely in the heart of the enemy's stronghold—Bravo hav. ing taken upon himself the duty of cut ting off the retreat, and preventing th:

arrival of assistance. The dogs —of which there are always plenty in a Mexican farm -house—gave the first alarm, their shrill barking breaking inharmoniously on the still night; but it was too late. To rush to the zaguan, overcome and knife the porter, possess themselves of his keys, and open wide the gates to their comrades, was, for these bandits, the work of an instant; and then, but not till then, were the doomed inmates aroused to a sense of theirdanger. Pepe was the first to spring from bed, and a glance showed him what had happened. He rushed to his weapons, but at that moment his door yielded to the ponderous blows dealt on it by the invaders; and in they poured, overpowering and making him secure in an instant. All attempt at concealment being now thrown off, most of the ruffians dispersed over the house, bent on pillage, and yelling and shouting like demons. Noriega himself and his men looking only for he prize, Don Cirilo, they brutally asked Pepe, "Where is your father?" "Not in the house," was his answer, he hoping to gain time to let his father hide; but one of his captors roared out, "M/entira/" ("You lie!") and, striking him a heavy blow with the butt-end of a pistol, laid him senseless on the floor. Two or three grooms, who had remained to attend on the amos (masters), had now turned out armed; and, with the devotion of Mexican servants toward their employers, had generously resolved to defend Don Cirilo to their utmost. Sallying forth with a Henry rifle each, they fired, and two of the invaders bit the dust; again they fired, and two more foes fell, but that was all: in an instant they were surrounded and separated, and then ensued a horrible scene of confusiom. Owing to the darkness, it was hard to tell friends from foes, and several of the bandits fell wounded by the shots of their own party; but there could be no mistake about the faithful #ozos,

who were fighting desperately. Odds told finally, and they were literally hacked to pieces —struggling to the last. Don Cirilo had slept on till the first' shots were exchanged: these woke him, and, starting up, he cried out, "Pepe! Pepe!" but received for answer the shouts and shots of the struggle in the Jatio, and the tramping of the horses passing in and out of the zaguan. He at once guessed the truth, and, seeing no hope of escape, resolved to sell his life dearly. Seizing a rifle, he quietly left his room, and entered the sa/a; his appearance was greeted by a yell of triumph, as a freshly lighted torch lit up the place, and the voice of Noriega was heard above the din, exclaiming, "Alive! take him alive!" But that was not the old man's idea: the first man that moved received a bullet, and the same fate befellanother. Enraged, one of the bandits cocked a pistol and fired: the ball struck Gil on the head, and he fell, but only to be caught up immediately, carried outside, and thrown across a horse, as if he had been a mere bundle. Once made fast, the order was given to march, for the alarm had now been given in the neighboring huts, and a vaguero had galloped off in all haste to San Juan. It would have required the pencil of a Rembrandt to give a faithful idea of the awful scene the Jatio now presented. A few torches shed their lurid and fitful light over this place of horrors. Here, a few bodies, still warm and with a spark of life, uncared for, lay like shadows; but the dark pools of blood only too clearly explained; there, the bandits in the hurry of departure. Imagine, peaceful reader, some fifty or sixty fiends in human form, a black crape veil covering the lower part of their faces —increasing their similarity to the agents of his Satanic Majesty—the broad - brimmed sombrero shadowing the upper part, that the uncertain light of the torches would otherwise have revealed; clothed in ev ery variety of costume —from the richly embroidered tiger-skin chafarreras (leggings) of the chiefs to the simple ca/zoneras (leather trowsers) of their followers; some armed with rifles, others with carbines of every shape and make— most of them with a heavy-dragoon Colt on their belts —and others again with the formidable machete hanging to their saddle-heads; mounted on every class of horse, from the proud camfero to the humble pacer. And this heterogeneous mob had to be assembled and put into some sort of order! No easy matter did it prove; as, on falling in, many riderless horses were yet plunging in the Jazio. Where were their masters? The fate of some few has been told; but many, who only received a certain sum for the expedition, irrespective of results, were engaged in ransacking the various rooms, and appeared at last decked out—some in handsome jackets, others with richly embroidered soméreros, and others again with rich, silver-mounted saddles, which were hastily made fast to their own, to be changed at some more convenient hour—but all bent on making the most of the expedition. The wounded were hastily tied to their seats, the order given to march, and this scene of desolation—one short hour ago so quiet and peaceful—was left behind. And yet one poor creature had escaped with life, unnoticed and uncared for—forgotten by all. Poor little Juan had managed, after a few desperate struggles — the first fright over—to free himself from his bonds, badly tied in the excitement of scaling the walls; and he, poor child! had been a horror-struck spectator of the conflict. It had been

his lot to see his father (dead as he thought) tied to a horse and borne off, and his eldest brother, Pepe, had shared the same fate; he had seen the mozos — his companions and play-fellows—shot while trying to aid their masters, and had witnessed the departure of the band.

What could fe do? The pet at home— young, weak, and timid—his only resource was tears; and such was the terror with which the events of this black night had inspired him, that he never even ventured to descend from the roof, but was found there —having cried himself to sleep—when the neighbors from San Juan came to inspect the place. Once out of the house, no light was needed to guide the party through the hills; but they were not allowed to go altogether unmolested. The vaguero had reached San Juan, and had given the alarm; but, unfortunately, most of the men had gone to the same fes¢a as the sons of Don Cirilo. However, a party of thirty was formed, and hastily arming themselves with such weapons as were most at hand, away they went to the rescue. An hour's ride brought them in sight of the party returning from Barragan; and then took place one of those night-skirmishes, almost fantastical, but fruitless. The townsmen, well mounted, hovered about the retreating band, exchanging pistol-shots incessantly; but soon the robbers struck a path of their own, and thus checked the advance of their pursuers. To amuse them, Bravo detached a small party to cover his retreat, and set off with the main body and his captives in another direction. The ruse—thanks to the darkness — succeeded; and, hearing the galloping of horses on all sides, the San Juan party thought they, in their turn, were to be attacked, and retired in confusion to avoid, as they thought, falling into a trap —not feeling at home in these intricate and dangerous roads. A few parting shots were exchanged, and the bandits, always triumphant, went deeper and deeper into the hills. The unfortunate Don Cirilo had suffered fearfully: the by- way his captors had chosen was but a mere sheep- walk, and the thornbushes and branches scratched and tore his face and legs pitilessly. He wished

in vain for death to deliver him from his agony; but he had yet to endure more, though not forelong. Toward daylight the party came to a halt among the precipitous and stony darrancas of Huehuetlan, a small Indian vilage; here, it was decided, would be a safe hidingplace for the captives.

When Don Cirilo recovered consciousness, he found himself on a rude campbed in a wretched hovel, at the entrance of which stood a sentry—masked, but armed to the teeth. By degrees the captive realized his position, and made an effort to rise; but his utter inability to move told him how severély wounded he must be, and again he sighed for death. Slight though his movement had been, it had not escaped the eye of the sentry, who at once communicated with his chief. Bravo then appeared, and asked the old man how he felt; no answer. Same question, same result. Chafing inwardly, the Captain then asked if his prisoner wished for any thing; but still met with the same stubborn silence. On a sign, a cup of afole gruel was brought in; but Gil had fainted, and lay, to all appearance, dead. Alarmed lest Death should rob them of their prize, the robbers now held a council of war, the result of which was the sending off to Matamoras for a doctor, who was quietly kidnaped and brought to Huehuetlan. On examining the patient, it was found that the ball which struck him had passed so close to the brain, that it seemed a miracle it had not touched it; add to this the hideous nightride and mental agony, what wonder that brain-fever seemed imminent, and most likely would prove fatal? Such was the Doctor's view of the case; and not being in accordance with the wishes of the setores plagiarios, it was greeted by curses and threats of death. Tremblingly, the poor man offered to do his best, and was allowed to dress the wounds; but the men were not satisfied —he was

sent off and another brought, also by force, to try his skill. He gave precisely the same opinion as his predecessor—that the prisoner would die —but Bravo was not a man to be trifled with. He wished Gil to live; so, coolly taking out his pistol and cocking it, he asked the Doctor to reconsider his opinion. Terrified at seeing his life thus suddenly threatened, the quaking medico said that, with proper treatment, medicines, food, etc., Gil might recover. "You shall have all your patient needs," was Bravo's answer; "you have but to ask:" and sure enough, the prescriptions were taken to Matamoras and made up, while broths and dainties were prepared for the prisoner; but he could not be prevailed upon to take them, and was evidently sinking, slowly but surely. In this extremity, Noriega thought of a cunning plan, which he was not slow in communicating to his comrades, and which was adopted after much stormy discussion. Pepe was brought before a council of the chiefs, (the reader may remember he had been but stunned) and the following proposition was made to him: he was to start for home at once, and bring back immediately a sum of $50,000, as ransom for his father and himself —any delay to be the signal for the old man's death. Pepe argued long, and with true Mexican obstinacy: he maintained that his family did not possess that amount of money, and that it would take long to borrow piecemeal from friends. No, the bandits must have $50,000, or he and his father should die. "Zsté bueno," ("It is well") was the quiet answer, and he was led back to the hole which served as his prison. It was hoped that a few days would make him alter his determination, but he remained firm; and, finally, by Noriega's influence, a fresh plan was decided on. Pepe was asked what he would give; he answered that he could not pledge himself to get more than $20,000—which sum the brigands,

after much debating, agreed to take. They had not intended allowing an interview between the father and son; but Pepe protesting he did not know where the money was hidden, he was conducted to his father's presence, and a most heart-rending meeting took place: Don Cirilo had fondly imagined that Pepe had escaped, and Pepe had no idea that he was to find his father on the brink of the grave. A few moments only were allowed them, but Don Cirilo found time to say: "Pepe, go home; you are now the head of the family. I intrust it to your care, but mark one thing: I know I am dying; so do not bring these scoundrels a single cenfavo, or you will incur your old father's dying malediction, instead of his blessing. Promise." It was a hard struggle —leaving an honored father in the hands of these men, who knew not what was mercy or pity— but so it had to be: Pepe promised, kissed the old man tenderly a last time, and departed.

Two days after, Don Cirilo died, and was buried like a dog on the hill-side; and then the bandits saw the mistake they had made in letting Pepe get out of their clutches. Hoping against hope, they waited a few days, but only heard the unwelcome news that large parties were scouring the country in search of them in all directions; and it became

necessary to separate. But ere breaking up, discord had crept into the camp. It was evident the men had lost faith in their leaders: two prizes —such prizes! —and no booty! Bravo saw the coming storm; and to keep up his own popularity, he began openly to upbraid Noriega for having proposed to send Pepe Gil away. The match thus lit, the train quickly fired. The men jumped at the idea of having somebody on whom to wreak their vengeance; and a courtmartial was held, with Bravo as President. This mockery of a court declared Paulino Noriega a traitor. He was condemned and shot, and buried alongside of poor Gil, whom he had helped to kill. Such are the decrees of Destiny! Bravo and his band were actively followed up; and when last heard c., this daring chief, with eight or ten followers only, was still skulking in the hills, hunted down like a wild beast, and being reduced to great extremities. By this time, let us hope, he has met his deserts. The body of poor Gil, though searched for, had not been found, but his sons did not despair of success. They hoped to have at least the melancholy satisfaction of giving Christian burial to the remains of an excellent father and—strange qualities in one of pure Indian blood—an honest, hard-working ranchero, who was esteemed by all who knew him.