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Everyone thought he would die. He made a pledge esccorts God hidaogo if zamkra life were spared, he would spend the remainder of his days doing missionary work among the Indians of Mexico. After he was well again, his friends wanted him to forget it and to accept a high position as a professor of mathematics in a great university in Europe. But he kept his word. Father Kino came to Mexico about the year He built some fifty missions in northern Mexico and Arizona; made fifteen journeys of exploration. More than a century before Fremont — the Pathfinder — crossed the plains. Father Kino had explored the Southwest.

And exploring was no joke in those days. The country was infested by merciless wild Apaches who swept down from the hills like ferocious wolves. The desert was scarcely less dangerous than the Indians. Long waterless stretches of aching heat. Sometimes with an escort, sometimes alone. Father Kino mapped and explored the desert.

As an explorer one of his most remarkable feats was the discovery — largely a matter of scientific deduction — that California was fastened to the main land. Most of the early sea voyages were made on the theory that California was an island; the early voyages were for the purpose of finding the Northwest Passage around the end of it. Father Kino ended that long-drawn-out dream. Many legends have come down of him. It is related that one of his exploring trips through Arizona was interrupted by a runner who told him that the Spanish officers were about to execute one of his faithful Indian converts. Father Kano turned back, rode a hundred and fifty miles as fast as his saddle mule could travel, and arrived in time to place himself in front of the firing squad and defy them to shoot.

One of his loveliest missions is in the old town of San Ignacio to which we came Matuure. It was the first of the rural towns we saw. Nogales is a railroad center and port of entry. San Ignacio was a little sleepy country town with the sun beating down on adobe walls. Nobody seemed to be doing anything. A few burros wandered around the streets, peons squatting in the doorways. Here and there in the shade of a ramada, a woman was patting tortillas. And standing over the town this splendid escortts church. Many historians contend that Father Kino is buried under its altars.

No one knows the age of the old church at San Ignacio. It df probably built about the year You can see the influence of the Moorish conquerors of Spain in the domes and the winding caracol stairways. We could not understand how the workmen ever Mature escorts in zamora de hidalgo those heavy blocks of esscorts in place without modern hoisting machinery. One of the bells in the old belfry is broken — a big chunk bitten out of the side. It may have been broken by some early sexton who got excited over the marriage of the beautiful village belle and put too much steam into the ringing. I am re, however, it was smashed by a bullet in some forgotten revolution.

Every church in Mexico has experienced its tragedies. Inside the church a class of Mqture Mexican children were saying their lessons to a very pretty and very dignified young senorita who had a lovely name — Maria Teresa Gallegos pronounced Gah-yay-gos. She showed us the escorte wooden images that were made long, long ago by the Indians. One was a figure of Jesus Christ. The Indian women had put a dress with a frilled skirt that stood out like a ballet-dancer's upon His naked body. The figure of the saint that we call John the Baptist, but whom the Mexicans call San Juan Bautista, wore a baby's dress. No doubt this lovely little garment of fine drawnwork linen had been made by some little Indian mother whose baby had been saved eescorts death by her bidalgo.

One of the relics at San Ignacio was a very old Bible Maturw leaves were yellow with age. Inside the cover Mature escorts in zamora de hidalgo these words written in a beautiful penmanship with oldfashioned flourishes: Yidalgo Teresa smiled when I told hkdalgo, and related a little story that had been told to her by her nurse. A man afflicted like ecsorts one of the Bible inscription had ihdalgo cross that seemed too heavy for him to bear. One night he had a dream — only he was never convinced that it was a dream. In the dream, Wscorts Christ came to him with deep sympathy. Among the other crosses, the man saw a tiny, tiny cross.

When Jesus told him that he might choose his own cross from the heap, he asked timidly, 'Might I take this little tiny bit of a one? Is that asking too esclrts, Lord. It is a place rich with history. At one time it was a center — a trading-post for the mines. When Mexico belonged to Spain, the King handed out zamoga of land to his favorites. On some of the lands were ledges of gold. But the Spaniards did not claw out the ore with the feverish haste that we always do. They didn't hurry about anything. They figured that it had been there for a Mayure time and wasn't likely to run away. Anyhow, there was another reason.

He zajora his gold mine as a bank account for his children and his grandchildren. He took out only enough gold to pay his expenses. At the time of the revolution against Spain, the old grandees could not believe that the imperial banners were being lowered forever. They hidalgk sure that some day the rebels would hidzlgo properly punished and they would come back to rule. So they carefully sscorts their gold mines. They cunningly closed esclrts entrances to the Matue shafts. For a hundred years, prospectors have been looking for those lost Spanish mines. Sometimes they find the ore dumps, hldalgo very seldom have they been able to find the mines.

Whatever else may be said about them, the Spanish were clever people — great engineers and architects. We drove into Santa Ana and found a stuffy little house back of a saloon, where we had luncheon. Among other things the senora brought us a sort of stew made of jerked beef. I had often read in old accounts how explorers lived on 'jerky. It tastes all right, but it involves a lot of work. It is like eating a lasso. Gladstone, the great English statesman, said that he always chewed everything thirty times. Thirty chews wouldn't have given him even a good start had he been eating venison jerky. If the Mexican people have been raised on jerky, I don't wonder that they never hurry.

A luncheon on jerky is a job for the afternoon. Luckily, we also had tortillas, which are little flat corn cakes beaten so thin by the hands of the Mexican women that they are almost like tissue paper. Sometimes, in fact, the women pin them up on the walls until they are needed. Once an enterprising American thought he would make the meals of the natives more sanitary by inventing a machine to pat tortillas. He built a big factory. It now stands idle. His customers complained that the tortillas lacked 'el savor de mano' the flavor of the hand. We drove all that night across the empty, desolate plains of northern Mexico. At four o'clock in the morning, we rolled into the beautiful city of Hermosillo.

We knew it must be a beautiful place because the name means 'little beautiful one. The police force turned out to meet us. Mexican policemen are very polite and dignified. They met us and routed out the proprietor of a Chinese cafe to give us something to eat. All Chinese cooks are workers in magic. No matter what the hour or what the emergency, they are never dismayed. I have seen a party of ten suddenly and without warning descend upon a lonely vaquero camp in the middle of a wilderness; but the Chinese cook always had a five-course dinner ready.

The Chinese cafe proprietor was unruffled, but the police were panic-stricken because they couldn't find a taxi to take us to the restaurant. We insisted — to their frozen horror — on riding to the cafe in the police patrol wagon. They were really agonized with shame when they shut us up in the wire cage. The driver simply tore through the quiet streets. He wanted to get the dreadful ordeal over as soon as possible. At the moment we were tempted to tell the Governor of the great State of Sonora to go jump in the lake- But we finally crawled sleepily out of bed and pulled on our clothes. In the end we were glad, for the Governor turned out to be a fine fellow.

He made us think of Roosevelt. Until he got to be Governor, Francisco EHas was a cattleman — one of the great cattle barons of Mexico. He still owns one of the largest cattle-ranches in the world. He is never so happy as when he is in the saddle on top of a bronco — the wilder the better. The Governor -— unlike many other governors I have known — did not try to be impressive. He took us to ride in his own car and drove it himself. And when the Governor drives, you had better hang on tight. He may have heard the rumor that an automobile can go slower than sixty miles an hour, but apparently never found out by trying.

The Governor's favorite remark was 'O. Perhaps the best index to the Governor's character is that all the people call him 'Pancho,' which is a pet name for Francisco — just as we call the Richard we are fond of, 'Dick. Once a workman on the road flagged him down, as it were, and rode a few miles with us to the place where his job called him. Several times the Governor stopped the car and got out to show a road foreman how to manage a new road machine — lately imported from the United States. During our long ride through Mexico we came into intimate touch with many governors. Almost without exception, they were remarkable men — men who would have been recognized as outstanding figures in any country and in any kind of work.

It is they who are making the new Mexico. Governor 'Pancho' drove us in his car to many interesting places, two of which should be seen by every American because they mean much to our own history. One was an old mill at a place called Los Angeles — like our California city. This mill was very beautiful — which most mills are not. Low adobe buildings surrounding a great plaza; a lovely Mexican house where the manager of the mill lived; large cool rooms with windows peering like little tunnels through adobe walls four feet thick. We had luncheon in a room that opened into a patio fragrant with rose blossoms.

We had many delightful dishes I had known before — one or two of which I had never heard. After you have eaten that, you could well place a silver memorial plate on your tum-tum, close it up, and stop eating forever more, sure that you will never find anything else as good. The cotton-mill itself is so old that no one knows its age. Centuries before the first white men saw Mexico, the present city of Hermosillo was an Indian village. The Indians who lived there were called Seris. They wished to extend their sway and power. So they tried to make friends with other native peoples far to the North.

They had an idea of founding something like our modern league of nations. They sent a delegation on a long and terrible journey across the mountains and rivers, from the South of Mexico where the remains of the Aztec ruins can still be seen, to the land of the Seris. They brought with them many presents — no doubt, rugs and cloaks made of feathers woven together into cloth. The important gift they brought — as it turned out — were the seeds of a plant of which the Seris had never heard — cotton. They showed the Seris how to plant the cotton seeds and how to weave the cotton into cloth. From that day to this, this old town of Los Angeles has been a cotton mill.

From time to time the crude looms have been changed. The skilled hands of the Indian women gave way to water power with a huge wooden water wheel that still stands there. Water power served its day and gave way to steam which now runs the old mill, turning out fifty thousand yards of cotton cloth a day. Which would have surprised the old Seris and Aztecs a good deal. Here was the cradle in which our modern West was born. It should be such a shrine of our history as Plymouth Rock. It was from San Miguel Horcasitas that the gallant Captain Juan Bautista de Anza started with the first band of settlers who ever crossed the plains to California.

De Anza crossed the plains and founded the city of San Francisco. Most important of all, he brought the first pioneer women, the pioneer mothers. And with them, civilization. Parenthetically I might remark that civilization never sticks until the women come. The conquering flag of civilization has always been the baby's diaper hanging on the clothesline. What does history say? Long ago, the Norsemen came with their wassail bowls and their fierce two-handed swords. They breasted the storms of the North Sea and found their way to the shores of America. Somewhere up in the cold winds of New Brunswick archaeologists poke around in crumbling old walls and think that maybe perhaps who knows but what they might be walls that the Norsemen left.

The proud knights of Spain came with war horses and their shining armor, but they did not succeed in implanting civilization until the women came. Daniel Boone forced his way down the dark rivers of Tennessee, but the wild tribesmen did not give up until the pioneer mothers followed with the washing and the churns. Then the Indians knew they were licked. The Apaches made short work of the strategists sent out from West Point, but the women of the lonely ranches of Arizona planted the white man's civilization and stuck.

Of all the heroes of our West, the most picturesque, the most gallant, chivalrous, and interesting was Juan Bautista de Anza. There was a good deal of bunk about Fremont, the famous pathfinder. In order to place him in the great drama of the West: Francisco Vasquez Coronado, the young knight of Spain, discovered the West in Father Kino made his explorations and his maps and his scientific deductions about one hundred and forty years later. Captain de Anza was a young Spanish army ofiicer stationed at a little presidio called Tubac.

It lies north of Nogales on the highway between Nogales and Tucson. He was perhaps the first character of our country's history who could rightfully be called a Western man. He was born on the frontier of northern Mexico. His father had been an army officer before him. Life must have been poison dull at the little garrison at Tubac The gay young captain's imagination called for action and adventure. There were, however, other reasons for his expedition. California had been discovered by a Portuguese sea captain named Cabrillo in He claimed the land for Spain — from which country he was getting his board and keep.

Nothing was done of importance with the new land until two hundred years later. A long chain of churches was then established — the missions of California. On the part of the priests, this was a holy crusade to Christianize the heathen Indians. The Spanish Government had also another reason.

Both Russia and England were nosing around California. If Spain hoped to hold the country, it was necessary to get people there. It meant a long and difficult voyage from Mexico in tiny cockleshell ships — and the horrors of scurvy for the crews. Both the missions and the garrisons were always in dread of starvation. Captain de Anza suggested to his superior officers that he thought he could find a way to cross the plains to California and open a land route to Mexico. Then they wouldn't have to bother or worry any more about the supply ships. He offered to pay the expenses of an exploring expedition to find out.

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After a great deal of red tape had been wound and unwound, he finally got permission and set out from Tubac on the 8th of January, We will not spend much time with him on this first expedition. It was a brave and terrible journey. Out of Matjre garrison of fifty soldiers at Tubac, he selected twenty seasoned veterans. As guides he had two brave priests who had made part of the journey alone — protected only by their faith. He carefully selected one hundred and forty tough little ponies and mules for the journey. Also sixty-five beef cattle to be killed for food en route.

Just as he was getting ready to start, zwmora Apaches swooped down from the hills and ran off his best animals. He had to make a detour back into Mexico and pick up what animals he could from the Father Kino missions. They were a poor lot. In a general way, his route Mature escorts in zamora de hidalgo through the modern town of Yuma; then down into Mexico below the present town of Mexicali; then north and escortd a pass of the mountains and finally into the aamora city of Riverside. From there he made his way north and arrived in Monterey on the 18th of April, ezcorts Back at Tubac they had probably given him up for lost, for there was no mail or news in that day.

But just as the sun was rising over the wild peaks of the Santa Ritas on the morning of May 27, the sentry on watch on the top of the Presidio walls saw long shadows moving — gaunt and grotesque on the desert floor. He called the corporal of the guard. They watched anxiously until the far-off tiny figures appeared in the morning light; the first rays of the sun caught and glittered on the steel of a Spanish sword. It was De Anza's little army coming home. De Anza became famous almost overnight Marure the news of fe great adventure went from pueblo to pueblo — all the way to the City of Mexico, where the great viceroy lived in a palace.

From esorts he was promoted to lieutenant-colonel. When he offered to make the trip to Esccorts again, taking with him escprts company of settlers, his offer was eagerly accepted. His offer was in fact a life-saver for the Spanish Government. What with the aggressions of Russia and England, the Spanish King realized that it was of Mature escorts in zamora de hidalgo importance to plant a city on the great harbor that we know now sscorts San Francisco. And he knew that no escirts was to be lost on hida,go job. There were no settlers at Tubac. So De Anza sent word from one pueblo to another telling the people fe he intended to organize an expedition to cross the plains to the new land of California.

He told everyone who felt like going with him to come to the little town of San Miguel Horcasitas. He selected that place because at that time the governor of Sonora had his capital there. De Anza stipulated that he would accept no soldiers for the expedition except married men who would bring their families along. They came trooping in on horseback — on burros and on foot — brave, adventurous men esvorts dark-eyed wives and children. Those must have zxmora days of bustle and confusion in that sleepy little adobe town — herds of cattle bawling and rushing through the streets, vaqueros yelling at them and flourishing their lassos, herds of packhorses driven azmora from the pasture lands, women and children wandering around with their bundles, trying to find a place to light, soldiers preparing their supplies, muleteers rigging new straps on their pack-saddles, De Anza himself giving orders from the porch of the Governor's home.

At half-past four on the afternoon of September 29,the expedition finally trailed out from the town. At the head of the column rode four mounted scouts, watching every peak and canon for signs of the dreaded Apaches. They were all frontiersmen and veterans. Then came De Anza with a few mounted soldiers. They carried lances, swords, and guns. They wore armor made Mayure seven thicknesses of deerskin. Behind Matre came four or five priests, heading a mingled company of men, women, and children, riding on horses and mules, many of the women with Uttle children in their arms.

Some of these soldiers hixalgo volunteers selected by Maure Anza. From his garrison at Zamorz he took eight soldiers, an officer, and a sergeant. With all the settlers and soldiers and priests and muleteers and herders hidalg were two hundred and forty souls, of whom one hundred and sixty were women and children. Behind the settlers came the herds of loose horses, mules, and horned cattle, stirring up clouds of dust, bawling and lowing. There were one hundred and twenty horses and twenty-five mules for the soldiers and their equipment; one hundred and twenty-five horses to carry Matkre settlers and their baggage, three hundred and twenty head of beef cattle.

For all these De Anza had to find edcorts and water. It was one of the most remarkable expeditions in human history. In latter days, engineers have builded roads along part wscorts the route over which De Anza traveled, leading all these people. Digging for the roads, they often find mementoes of prehistoric tragedies, showing how terrible was the journey. They find broken water-bottles and bones, showing where some primitive traveler of a forgotten race had accidentally broken his oUa and died of thirst — a slow terrible death in the sand hills. The young Spanish officer must have had a stout heart to lead this expedition.

De Anza did everything for the people he led. He rode with the scouts with every nerve strained as he watched for signs of the Indians. When evening came, he made the rounds to inquire after Mrs. Gomez's headache and asked Mrs. Lopez how her new baby's first tooth was getting on. So tenderly did De Anza care for his charges during that frightful march that not one life was lost. One woman died just as they started, leaving her husband to march on alone with five little children. All the rest of the brave women endured heat and cold and thirst and dreadful dangers.

They all arrived safely at Monterey at half-past ten on the morning of April 13, De Anza saw them established in the new city of San Francisco which he founded. Then he started back to Mexico with a few soldiers. History tells how the settlers — particularly the women — followed him back along the road for a mile or more, their eyes streaming with tears, their broken voices asking God to bless and protect him. In after years, these simple settlers who plodded through the desert wastes with De Anza became the proudest names in California. Many a lovely belle, with eyes sparkling from under her black lace mantilla and the little red heels of her satin shoes clicking through the fandango, remembered a grandmother who had carried a baby in her young arms as her mule plunged into the wild waters of the Colorado.

And in many a proud California home — on an hacienda where the cattle fed on a thousand hills — hung a tattered coat of deerskin armor which Grandpa wore when he rode with De Anza. The old stone church where he went to say his prayers on that last day is there just as he saw it, with its crude beams chipped by the axes of the Indian workmen; the old bells that rang a farewell to De Anza still ring to call the faithful to worship. The old adobe houses were gay with bunting. The lilt of Mexican music echoed through the sleepy old streets, just as though they were expecting De Anza to come riding into town. I haven't as yet been able to figure out whether we should have swelled with the consciousness of having an escort of honor, or whether we should have broken out in gooseflesh pimples with premonitions of danger.

For you never can tell about a Yaqui. After four centuries of endless warfare, the Yaqui remains unconquered. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne of England when the proudest knights of Spain sallied out to conquer the Yaquis. The last army that went into the Yaqui country bent on conquest dropped bombs out of airplanes. But the throb-throb-throb of the Yaqui war-drums has never been stilled — except when the Yaqui got tired of thumping them. It was two days since we had left Hermosillo. We had motored south to Guaymas.

This is an old harbor town on the Gulf of California. Oddly enough it was once a way station on the trip between California and Arizona. Traveling over the old De Anza trail was an ordeal so frightful that the pioneers took a long way around. In this way they escaped the desert sand hills, but usually spent a large part of their time on the river sand bars. The river steamers waded about as often as they swam. Guaymas is a lovely old town: The mirror-like blue waters of the harbor reflect the jagged peaks that surround the town. The first time I saw Guaymas, the time was half an hour before daybreak.

Strange unearthly figures slipped out of the fog before us. It was as though the ghosts of the past were scurrying back to their uneasy graves — a burro train slipping along through the mist, old women with heavy baskets on the way to the market, a squad of soldiers passing on the way to relieve the guard, the sharp quick orders of the sergeant coming to us out of the fog before we could see the soldiers. Guaymas should have plenty of ghosts to wander about in the fog. There has been history. Great stately galleons with painted sails used sometimes to take refuge there from pirates.

In the center of the town is a beautiful monument erected to the memory of a battle in which the Mexican women — peon women in black rebosos, aristocratic women in lace and fine linen — fought with guns by the side of their husbands to repel the French who were trying to capture the town. It is one of the most famous fishing ports in the world. Beautiful white ladylike yachts often lie in the harbor while the millionaire sportsmen from the 'States' angle for game fish. The warm waters of the Gulf are alive. Enormous turtles float on the tropic waters.

From this peaceful old place we went into the country of the Yaquis: An ironic touch was added by a truckload of unarmed Yaquis sandwiched in between ourselves and our escorts. We could read this any way we liked. The Yaquis were doing us the high honor to escort us through their own country. But neither they nor we could avoid observing that if the other Yaquis were seized with an inspiration to start something, their own people would be a conspicuous part of the target. Not that this would have worried the Yaquis very much. The Yaqui is one of the fiercest fighting men in the world.

He is a little fellow with tiny hands and feet. He is usually as bashful as a little boy, but he has the heart of a fighting wildcat. When Yaqui mothers sing their babies to sleep, they have a lullaby, the refrain of which is: There have been three great fighting nations among the North American Indians. The Sioux with their allies the Cheyennes, the Apaches, and the Yaquis. The Sioux made a great theatrical show of warfare. They galloped into battle wearing gorgeous war-bonnets of feathers; their ponies decorated on the shoulders with scarlet and blue patches of paint; pony tails wrapped with scarlet cloth. The warriors 'made up' for war with paint like chorus girls.

Their battles were distinguished by dash and speed. They went into action with their ponies hitting the turf as fast as their little hoofs could pound. To win honors in battle, the warrior tried to touch a foe with his hand or to whip him in the face with his heavy quirt without kilUng him — at least before he killed him. If a warrior could do this or could take away a weapon from a living foe, he was awarded what was called a 'coup stick,' which was a badge of high honor and gave him the right to wear certain feathers in his hair. It was a good deal like a college athlete getting a 'letter' for his sweater.

The white man's method of making war by wholesale slaughter rather horrified them. With them it was a matter of glory and honor and daring — not of slaughter. The Apache was, on the whole, a better fighter than the Sioux, although the Sioux showed the highest type of military ability. The Apache, on the other hand, was a killer, pure and simple. The Apaches taught their boys that a warrior should be like a coyote: It was matter of great shame to an Apache if one of the foe ever saw him during a battle. His shots came out of nowhere. During our twenty years war against the Apaches, our soldiers seldom saw one, but there was not a minute that the Apaches did not see the soldiers.

A signal smoke curling up in black spirals against the sky, a spit of flame, and a soldier falls dying to the desert. Nothing to be seen but the heat waves rising from the silent rocks. That was Apache warfare. They didn't dress up like the Sioux. If the Apache had human vanity, it did not take the form of feathers and make-up. Like Eapling's Gunga Din, a bit of twisty rag was all the field equipment he could find. A rag tied around his head and a breech-clout with a pair of moccasins was the Apache's war uniform. The Yaqui had still a different method of making war. He marches into battle to the beat of a Yaqui tom-tom: The pom-pom, pom-pom, pom-pom of this little drum freezes your blood: I have heard the Yaquis marching to the attack to the beat of this drum; and I don't want to hear it again.

As nearly as I can read the Yaqui's heart, he likes to fight in the same way that an American likes baseball. They seem to enjoy being shot at. In one of the recent Mexican revolutions, a large company of Yaquis were mobilized. They started on one side, and flopped over to the other side when the general changed his mind. It was all right with them. They didn't care on which side they fought. One day I saw my little friend Pablo, the Yaqui, in the trenches at Naco. He was by this time on the Federal side, but he opened his coat and showed me that he was carrying the red badge of the rebels.

When the revolution came unexpectedly to an end, Pablo and his Yaqui friends were outraged. They refused to go home. They said they had been invited to a fight and they wanted to fight somebody. They felt as though they had been invited to a party and sent home before the refreshments came. In many ways the Yaqui isn't a bad sort of fellow. When he takes a job at some of the ranches, he is always a fine worker. His promises are solid gold. He likes to swoop down on Mexican military posts just as a small boy likes to throw mud pies at passing automobiles. I knew a young American sugar planter who, with his bride, was taken captive by a band of Yaqui raiders.

Homo important of all, he brought the first homo women, the pioneer mothers. The Apaches taught their boys that a homo should be like a coyote:.

They held him a prisoner for two or three weeks and he said he had a wonderful time. They let him go on the war trail with them; even let him beat the tom-tom. He said, when they started out on the war-trail, the Yaqui women and girls shouted and cheered exactly as the co-eds cheer for the players at a football game. He said that most of the expeditions he saw were forays against Mexican travelers. The Yaquis thought it a great joke to take all their clothes and let them go. There was nothing vicious or cruel about their little games of war-making. Sometimes, it must be confessed, that his enthusiasm has led the Yaqui into horrible atrocities.

You can also say this for the Yaqui. His wars were forced upon him. Away back in the early days of Mexico — three or four hundred years ago — the Spaniards took all the loot they could find in the great Aztec empire to the south. Then they wanted more. They had an idea that the Aztecs had wonderful mines on the West Coast and sent armies up to drive out the Indians. The driving was pretty good until they got to the Yaquis. You must remember that these Spanish troops were the finest soldiers in Europe, trained under great captains and war-hardened by terrific campaigns against the Aztecs.

The Yaquis gave them a terrible licking and beat every army sent against them for the next four centuries. Since Mexico became a republic its armies have been almost continuously at war with the Yaquis. Time after time the Yaquis have been all but annihilated. I have read of campaigns in which they were so ragged and frozen that at night they buried themselves in the earth up to the neck, to crawl out and fight again the next day. Badly beaten in one war, a shipload of Yaquis were loaded for exile. They threw their women and children overboard and leaped into the sea themselves, preferring death to separation from their wild mountains.

At last a very shrewd President of Mexico made a treaty with them whereby every Yaqui warrior received thirty dollars a month just to be good. Since then the Yaquis have behaved pretty well. But when the harvest moon comes up over the mysterious mountains, the little Yaqui begins to get queer feelings. His heart grows uneasy and he thinks how sweet a song the bullet sings as it whines past his ears, or cracks from the muzzle of his own rifle. Then he is likely to slip away from his neat little towns by the side of the railroad where the Mexican Government tells him to live.

They miss his face at roll-call and little fires twinkle in the dim silent canons of his mysterious mountains and nobody has any desire to go in and try to bring him out. In the end he will be conquered; but by schoolbooks rather than bullets. The Mexican Government has opened schoolhouses in the Yaqui country. And the Yaqui children, who are as smart as little fox terriers, are forgetting the song about the Yaqui who knows how to die. Nevertheless, one can never be too sure about a Yaqui. We didn't feel too sure as we rode along highways bordered by thick chaparral. I imagine that in the days of the Roman Empire, when the legions of the great Julius Csesar were guarding the river Rhine against the barbarians who came out of the dark forests, their forts must have looked just like the Yaqui country.

For about a hundred miles we traveled through a desert lined with forts. These forts are of mud with a little tower on top of each one. Under an awning or thatched brush, to shield him from the blazing sun, a sentry stands all day, his rifle in his hands and his eyes always anxiously scanning the horizon; his ears always listening for the tom-tom, tom-tom — the Yaqui drums. On one side of the railroad track are five or six neat clean little towns, villages for the Yaquis built by the Mexican Government. On the other side of the tracks are the forts and the Mexican soldiers. To prevent the Yaquis stealing up for a secret attack, the brush has been cleared oflF for a long distance around each adobe fort.

In some places the Yaqui boys have used the cleared places for basket-ball courts. Which is what I should call sarcasm. We didn't hear the beat of the Yaqui war drums. In fact, the Yaquis seemed to think the sight of us under heavy guard was rather funny. They hung their heads and made little snickering remarks to each other as they stood around in groups in the Mexican garrison towns. They looked as though they wanted to say: There is a saying in Mexico: This mysterious river is a sullen, muddy stream that winds and turns through a flat country, willow trees clinging to the banks.

The Yaquis — just to show their friendly feeUngs and also to earn a few pesos — helped our motor cars to cross the river on their ferry. No one knows how many years they have been running it. Their ferryboat is a flat scow called a pango. It is managed by half a dozen Yaquis with long oars. The current is very swift, so they row upstream as far as they can and let the pango drift down to the opposite bank. Sometimes when the pango does not behave very well, two or three Yaquis jump overboard into the rushing stream and haul the boat by main strength to the bank.

One of our cars broke through the deck of the pango and it took a whole company of Mexican soldiers to lift it out. Climbing the opposite bank of the river Yaqui, we found ourselves in a different kind of country. It was as though we had suddenly come through a curtain into a new world. It made him feel more adventurous; although it seemed to me that he was having plenty of adventures without the assistance of a new name. We couldn't find any such word as 'Norteno' in the Spanish dictionary, so I imagine that Nicolas must have made it up. However, most of the adventurers of the world have made their own names, so we will have to ignore the Spanish purists and let his stand as he made it.

Nicolas was a little Mexican boy we picked up on a lonely road in the Mayo Indian country. He wasn't so little at that, being tall for his age and as straight as a ramrod. He was sixteen years old. When we first saw him, he was wearing everything he owned in the world — which consisted of a pair of ragged white cotton trousers, a 'hickory' shirt, and an enormous sombrero. His bare feet were thrust into a pair of rawhide guarachas — just two pieces of cowhide with straps to hold them on. El Norteno was trying to walk from the south of Mexico to the United States. He lived in a lonely little town in the mountains back of the city of Guadalajara. For a year he had worked at odd jobs to save money enough to come to California of which he had heard so much.

He went without candy and stayed home from the circus and hoarded every centavo. He fell in there with a man who said he was going to the United States. El Norteno was delighted with the man's suggestion that they should travel together. He thought it was a fine idea when the man offered to take care of all of his saved-up money so it would not get lost. One day they started down to the railroad to begin the grand journey. At the last moment the man sent El Norteno on an errand around the corner. When the boy hurried back, his friend was gone. Also El Norteno's money. He never saw either again.

El Norteno dried his tears and started to walk two thousand miles to the promised land. The Mexican peon is very kind and generous. If he has only one tortilla, he will insist that you take the bigger half of it. These simple-hearted country people felt sorry for the boy and helped him on his way from one pueblo to the next. Nevertheless, El Norteno was a very tired and very hungry boy when we picked him up on the road. He was so delighted at being adopted by los americanos that he forgot all about going to the United States.

He turned back south with us. All the rest of the way through Mexico, El Norteno was one of our party. On December 10,Zamora was declared the municipal seat. Later the city's elite began a political movement to create a new state in which Zamora would be the state capital. By a new ecclesiastical office was founded, Dioceses of Zamora based in Zamora. The political aspirations to separate from the rest of the state were impeded. During the Porfiriato the city experienced the fastest economic growth in its history. Between andthe city experienced rapid economic growth due industrial development, city modernization, technological innovations, and increased agricultural productivity.

Zamora was one of the first cities in the state that implemented new technologies like: In the department of transportation connected Zamora by railroad to other important populations centers in central Mexico. At the same time the department of urbanization had an image they wanted for the city which involved many modernization projects throughout the city. During the Porfiriato the city had an architectural renaissance celebrating many vogue European architectural styles. Large civil offices and religious temples were erected during this time that flaunted the economic wealth of the city like: The Mexican Revolution reached the state inwhen those loyal to Francisco I.

Madero proclaimed the city and surrounding area their territory. When the state governor resigned the city would continue to be involved in the war. In the state ratified the state constitution.


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