BarbarousMexico JOHN KENNETH TURNER

IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH
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 jcfc 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 jefc politico,
Rodoipho 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 (lays in the Valley of Death I
was the guest of the prcsidcnte, 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!"
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